Dying
by ABakerStreetIrregular
Summary: In which John is ill and Sherlock takes care of him, for once. Warning for the mildest slash... Thanks for reading!


S/J

()()()

"I'm dying," John groaned as he staggered into the sitting room, arms clasped protectively around his middle.

"John?"

Sherlock leapt up after this very telling exclamation, abandoning whatever it was he'd been dissecting at the kitchen table, and seized him, hands quickly touching here, there, his face, his ribs, thin fingers combing through John's short hair.

This accomplished, and finding only hot dry skin and no obvious punctures, bumps, bombs or bullet wounds, then seeing John break into a vicious fit of coughing that left him in little doubt of what he was 'dying' of, Sherlock's face adopted a look of chilly hurt as he stood back, arms folded over his chest.

"How dare you frighten me like that?"

Once his coughing subsided, the look John turned on Sherlock would have curdled milk. He had been unconsciously leaning into all those careful little touches and his scalp still tingled deliciously from Sherlock's short fingernails. The touching had been nice, he decided, very nice, comforting, he would have loved a bit more of it, in fact, but this was just not on.

He'd felt this cold coming on for a few days and this afternoon at the surgery it had fallen on him like a the proverbial ton of bricks. Now his head ached fit to burst, his throat felt like he'd been gargling with broken glass and no, he wasn't about to let this be about Sherlock.

"This is not about you, this is about me," he wheezed.

Sherlock had grace enough to look a bit pained. He knew what was coming.

"Me, Sherlock, and how I might not be ill had you not kept me out to stupid o'clock last night, in the rain, watching for your damned cat burglar."

"The one we didn't catch," Sherlock added, looking doubly sorrowful now, and John wondered if the remorse had more to do with the fact that they hadn't nabbed the thief, or that John was ill.

"The one we didn't catch," John confirmed. His voice, clogged and nasal, petered out at the end as another round of coughing racked his body.

Sherlock didn't even attempt to defend himself by pointing out that one does not get a cold from being cold, one gets a cold from a virus, and as John worked in a surgery, he most likely had a patient to thank for his current state, or possibly the fact that he insisted on public transport.

No, Sherlock took it all in his stride, recognizing too that the mood John was in now, and had been in last night on their regrettably fruitless stakeout, had more to do with the bug wearing him down and less to do with the rain and the cold. Although neither of those factors could have helped much.

Making one of those breakneck '_Wait-what_?' Holmesian changes that invariably left John's head spinning even on a good day, he stood hard by, pulling John into him and lightly rubbing between his shoulder blades until the fit passed. Then, laying the back of his cool hand against John's forehead and finding it blazing, peeled off his jacket in one swift motion and marched him toward the bathroom.

"Take a shower," he instructed, "hot as you can stand it, and let me know when you've finished."

"I just want my bed," John complained, looking miserable and feeling thunderous, but he saw the sense in it, and knew a hot shower would feel wonderful, so he did as he was bid.

The shower did feel lovely. The steam soothed his throat and relaxed his aches, the rosemary-mint soap he kept for mornings cleared a bit of his stuffiness, and standing under the hot spray with his hands on the tiles kept the room from spinning. When the water began to cool, he turned it off and pushed back the curtain to find clean pants, a pair of Sherlock's flannel pajama bottoms and one of his own t-shirts folded neatly on the counter for him.

The flannel bottoms were miles too long, of course, but they were soft and comfortable, and the pleasing thought of climbing into his bed clean and warm to die in peace forefront in his mind, he came down the hall to the enticing smell of fresh-brewed peppermint tea, so instead he followed his nose into the kitchen.

Sherlock had resumed his experiment but looked up when he heard John's step in the doorway.

"Ah," Sherlock said upon seeing him. It was a mildly disappointed sound, as if he had hoped the hot shower would wash away John's cold. But after the quick onceover, he added a mug to the tray he'd made up and herded John into the sitting room.

The couch was mounded with all their plumpest pillows and softest blankets, and the tray Sherlock sat on the coffee table held a small plate of biscuits, a honey bear, box of tissues, an assortment of cold medicines, a mug and the teapot, from whence the scent of peppermint wafted temptingly.

"What's this about?"

"This is more or less my fault," Sherlock murmured, "so the least I can do is keep an eye on you and bring you what you need."

John didn't miss the 'more or less' and he puckered slightly, but Sherlock's expression was all innocent care, and for a moment John stared at him, cynically wondering if he were dreaming, but he didn't speak, opting instead to take what succor was offered without question and slither under the blankets with a sigh of profound gratitude.

It felt so good to be prone and he melted into the couch, closed his eyes, and for one perfect moment simply listened and took comfort in the sounds of the flat, the muted bustle of Mrs. Hudson downstairs, cars passing on Baker Street, and all the soothing noises of Sherlock making tea.

Much as this white noise soothed, all his little aches pulled him back, made him take stock of his body, and he took a moment to wonder what he'd done to deserve this. He'd made it through the winter without so much as a sniffle, so why now, when spring had sprung at last, when it was wonderfully warm, when the flowers were blooming outrageously and the trees had leafed out overnight like someone opening an umbrella? He felt cheated. His only consolation was, as he had already treated a number of people who bore his own symptoms, he knew it didn't last very long.

"Here, take these, have some tea, then sleep," Sherlock's voice was close, welcome, and John suddenly wanted him close in that vague way you wanted comforting things about you when you're ill.

He cracked an eye to see Sherlock seated on the coffee table now, holding out two tablets and the mug, now steaming gently. Sherlock had his curious face on, eyes sharp and mouth pressed in a thoughtful line. Then again, he always had his curious face on, John didn't think he could really help but look that way, and the only thing that kept him from full-blown unease was that, mingled with the curiosity was affection, concern, and a smidgen of guilt.

John felt himself smile.

"If this is you being contrite I'll take it."

A smile tugged at the corners of Sherlock's mouth and was gone.

"It is, and I'm glad."

He watched as John took the pills, sipped halfheartedly at the tea, and despite the groan of mingled pain and pleasure at the first swallow, hand it back unfinished.

John was absently rubbing his feet in the blankets to get them warm and something occurred to him. He opened his eyes to find Sherlock hadn't moved and was watching him intently.

"You're not going to, I don't know, _study_ me, are you?"

Sherlock was a picture of wounded dignity. Lips pursed in a perfect rosebud and eyes wide and mildly hurt.

"How could you think that? You don't trust me at all, do you?"

"No," John said, chuckled, and coughed. "I've seen what you'll do in the name of science."

Sherlock set the unfinished tea aside, laid a hand on his heart and vowed, "No studying, I promise."

"Oh good," John murmured, contented enough to burrow down and roll over to face the back of the couch, "that's a relief."

()()()

He'd gotten home at two, been soundly asleep on the couch by three, and feverish as he was, slept fitfully until seven, when Sherlock woke him to offer another dose of meds and ask him to eat something if he was able.

He took the proffered pills and dozed again, only coming fully awake when Sherlock pressed his shoulder and, once he'd sat up, pressed a large cup full of tomato soup into his hand.

It was tinned soup, he knew that because he'd bought it himself, what he hadn't expected were the bits of garlic, black pepper, and the fat and sunnily shining pat of butter that were floating on top of it.

Even as the realization struck him that he was completely ravenous, his stomach echoed the sentiment by growling eagerly, and his mouth began to water. He lifted the cup and tried to smell the soup, and couldn't. This led to an exploratory spoonful that, while it warmed him through and through, confirmed his fears and remained tasteless. No sense of smell often means no sense of taste either.

"Dammit," he growled. Insult to injury, it came out as '_dabbit_'.

Sherlock's head popped round the kitchen doorjamb.

"What? Is it alright?"

John offered him a wan smile.

"No," he protested. "It's good. Hot, just what I needed. Thank you," he said, and it all came out in a rush because he hated to lie.

For all he knew it might have tasted like battery acid, but he was grateful and it felt so good going down, so he finished it to the last drop. Sherlock retrieved the cup and after John's protest that he didn't need anything else, disappeared back into the kitchen.

With a full belly and a heart warmed by Sherlock's care of him, John made a brief visit to the loo, then slipped back into his den of blankets and went back to sleep.

()()()

As always when he was feverish and ill, he dreamt of the desert.

A blazing Hell filled with screaming men whose bloody faces, savaged limbs, and bodies ravaged by the pitiless passage of bullets, shrapnel and explosives, tormented him. For the many thousands of them, he was alone and the only one to help them, and he could never save them all. He fought so hard, up to his elbows in entrails and gore, but the flow of casualties never let up.

When his own bullet came, followed by the fever that he thought must surely incinerate him from the inside out, he raised his own voice and added it to the howling chorus.

Normally he would wake with his clothes clinging to skin tacky with sweat, but not tonight. Tonight, when he was sick and weak and least able to allow his fear and desperation to wake him, tonight something cut through the bloody visions, a thread of sound, a spark of sweetness in the dark that broke through the misery and raised him up, showed him the way out of so much horror and pain.

Without question, and like a compass turning always to magnetic north, he followed it.

()()()

The sound of rain pattering against the window glass roused him, bringing the memory of rain running in chilly rivulets down the back of his neck back with rude clarity and he shivered in his cocoon of blankets.

Pulling them back enough to crack an eye, he found the sitting room was dim and the air cool where it touched his face. Watery London morning light crept through the room, turning everything to muted shades of silver and grey. All was unchanged, but for Sherlock's Strad, laying half in the case with the bow beside it, the wood glowing redly even in the gloomy light. Funny, he couldn't remember the last time he saw Sherlock play.

The color of the wood made him think he would very much like a cup of tea, and maybe a poached egg with toast and jam, but he cast the idea away out of hand because he knew even if the desired items appeared magically before him he wouldn't be able to enjoy them. This thought had the covers back over his head and him trying vainly to go back to sleep.

No luck. His little nest was so perfectly cozy he hated to leave it, so, stubborn and still feeling like shit, he only got up when the pressure from his bladder became too much to bear. The cool air was a shock on his sleep warm body when he flung back the covers and stretched with a long hoarse growl, and the discomfort of the icy floor had him rushing when he went back into the kitchen.

Sherlock was still sitting at the table working, hair a bit rumpled and in his own pajamas now, and he got up to fill the kettle when he saw John was awake and about. After a bout of painful throat clearing that still only left his voice a whisper, and already knowing the answer, John asked him if he'd slept.

"No, too busy. Tea?"

John nodded and went upstairs to his room, returning wearing a hooded sweatshirt and with a pair of thick socks on his feet.

He sat down just as Sherlock poured water into two mugs, Chai for himself and more peppermint for John. He added milk and sugar to his and honey to John's, and by the time he'd watched this little ritual and the tea was placed in front of him his mouth was watering for it. The peppermint cleared his head, and when the honey coated his throat like a miracle cure he sighed with pleasure.

"Thank God for bees," he croaked, and Sherlock laughed.

Back to the couch after he finished his tea and took another dose of cold meds, chased down with a small tumbler of orange juice.

Not feeling like he could sleep again immediately and looking at Sherlock, who was visibly beginning to droop, John 'ahem'ed and lifted up the corner of his blankets in invitation,

Sherlock smiled, "Are you sure?"

When John gave his affirmation Sherlock came over and slid in with him, pushing and nudging until their legs were intertwined, and nuzzling his cold nose into John's warm neck with a growl of pure animal pleasure.

"Oh God," he rumbled, long arms twining around John to pull him closer, "even without the fever the BTUs you put out could heat the block."

John stifled a grunt and the little ember of lust ignited by Sherlock's voice fizzled a bit when Sherlock's frigid feet found his, seeking to steal as much heat as he could.

"You feel good to me, too," John whispered with what little voice he could muster, pressing his hot cheek to Sherlock's cool one.

John certainly didn't feel up to sex, but he was always glad to have Sherlock near enough, and still enough, to touch at his leisure. His hands pressed and stroked absently once the man had settled down and lay pressed to him like a limpet, the cotton of Sherlock's shirt and the silky skin of the back of his neck cool under John's fingertips. He carded through the thick dark curls and found them cold, but all of Sherlock warmed quickly as he leeched away John's heat.

John cooled and Sherlock warmed, they both dozed off.

()()()

It was nearly three o'clock when John woke up again. Sherlock was predictably gone and John found that he felt so much better, the fever appeared to have broken and he was starving. Padding around the flat he made himself a cup of tea and saw Sherlock had left a note on the kitchen table.

_I'll be home by four, bringing dinner. SH_

He took his tea back to the couch and turned the telly on, pleased to see one of his favorite movies, _Marathon Man_, was on, but he got 20 minutes into it and fell asleep.

In the midst of John's doze, he began to dream of Mycroft. Mycroft prodding him with the sharp end of his umbrella and ceaselessly asking "Is he safe?" and he woke with a jerk to find he'd flung off all his covers, Sherlock was home and he'd brought a full bag from the grocers and a staggering amount of Vietnamese soup with him.

Sherlock maintained that very good, very spicy pho could raise the dead, and even though John looked on the huge bowl, garnished with sliced jalapeno and chili sauce that looked like liquid fire, with trepidation, after he'd finished it he had some color in his cheeks and felt much more like his old self.

It was nearly six by that time and John left Sherlock to tidy up the kitchen. When he came out of the shower in fresh pajamas Sherlock was folding up his blankets and stacking them on one end of the couch. As he put the last one on the pile John stepped up behind him and put his arms round Sherlock's waist, collapsing against him and rubbing his cheek against the back of his neck.

"Are you tired?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, even though I shouldn't be seeing as I've slept through the better part of the last 24 hours. Are you?"

"I am," Sherlock said, smothering a yawn, and John smiled.

He turned in John's arms, wrapped him tight in his own, and John buried his face in the front of Sherlock's shirt, nuzzling in for warmth and loving the smell of him now he could enjoy it again.

"Thank you for taking care of me," he murmured into the soft cotton, his hands stroking Sherlock's back.

Sherlock only hummed, smiling, hands idly caressing the back of John's neck. He was still, and John could tell he was thinking, but before he could ask Sherlock gave up the idea he'd been chewing on.

"You know what I think?"

"Rarely."

"I think it's time for a trip to the country."

"Oh?" John brightened at this.

"Yes," Sherlock murmured against the top of his head. "We can get some fresh air, I can feed you fat ham sandwiches and cold beer while you sun yourself like a serpent on a rock."

He punctuated this with a kiss against John's temple. John chuckled, thinking Sherlock must be tired to have ever so slightly lisped through so many 'S'es, and with such poetry.

"It sounds perfect. What will we do right now?"

"I think a cup of tea and some telly is in order, and then sleep. Yes?"

"Yes."

()()()

The chaise lounge was warm against his back and the sun on his skin was hot, just enough to make it prickle under his clothes. The sky was mostly empty of clouds, and those that had lingered were as perfectly fat and round as sheep. The nearby flowers hummed with bees, plump little bodies busily visiting the violets, Fever Few, Forget-Me-Not, and Speedwell, while the sparrows played and dived in and out of the lilacs, dying on the stem now but still perfuming the air with heady sweetness.

He stroked lightly at the sheen of condensation on the bottle of beer in his hand, the glass cold and pleasantly slick under the pads of his fingers. A plate of sandwiches sat under the protection of a red checked napkin and he reached for one, finding it was just as Sherlock had promised, fat with sweet ham, Swiss cheese, and hot mustard.

It was a peaceful, beautiful place and as he lay boneless in the sun, munching the sandwich and chasing it down with the bitter beer, he imagined the last of his cold burning away in the heat.

Sherlock was sitting a few feet away, half under a patio umbrella, dressed in a thin linen shirt and dove grey trousers he'd rolled up to his knees, long legs stretched out before him and nose in a book, looking cool and comfortable, but with a bit of warm color across his cheeks.

There was a distinct lack of fretting about the London evil-doers running rampant without him there, all calls from Lestrade or Mycroft were conspicuous in their absence, it was still and quiet, and sometimes that was just what they both needed.


End file.
